Death at the Abbey (9 page)

First the rowing lessons, now this? “Why does he intend to build it underground?” Violet asked.

“Most of the duke's projects are underground,” Reed said. “He is quite . . . modest, and prefers that his construction not be visible to others. He considers them to be for his own enjoyment and for that of his household staff.”

So much money invested in buildings and tunnels that would only be used by essentially just a handful of people. Portland was a strange man, and becoming more eccentric in Violet's eyes with each passing glimpse into his world.

“Anyway,” Sam continued, “Ellery immediately saw the value of dynamite in tearing open the pit required for it. In fact, he recommends that work be started on it right away.”

So her husband and the estate manager were already on a first-name basis.

“I'm to return tomorrow with James and Philip to mark it out, set the holes, and blow them.” James and Philip Ward were twin brothers Sam had employed to help manage the opening of the colliery.

Reed smiled. “We've been celebrating our agreement, but it seems to me that food is in order. Will you join us for luncheon, Mrs. Harper?”

Over broiled hare and stewed celery in cream sauce brought out to them by Judith, Sam and Reed continued their conversation about how many rounds of blasting to do, where to drill holes for placing the dynamite, and what estate staff should be on hand to help. They were as excited about it as Violet was when she found a new brand of cosmetic massage cream. She let them prattle on as she wandered into her own thoughts about the porcelain shard, Spencer, Martin Chandler, and Colonel Mortimer.

Eventually, though, the two men realized that they had an uninterested party at the table, and changed the subject.

“I know you must think His Grace is peculiar,” Reed said, addressing Violet as he laid his fork on his plate and took a sip of ginger beer, “but he is actually a generous and thoughtful master to his workers. Every man receives a donkey and an umbrella to ensure he has no trouble getting to work, and he has established a widows' and orphans' fund to care for the families of workers who die. If Burton had had a wife, I have no doubt His Grace would have already installed her in her own cottage on the property.”

“He
is
generous,” Violet murmured, wondering if Reed intended to offer any of the bread pudding Judith had left under a glass dome on a side table.

“I believe many of his projects are devised by him just to keep men in the area employed. In fact, it's said that any man can come to Welbeck and expect that he won't be turned away,” Reed boasted. “I probably manage the work and pay of more men at Welbeck than on any other estate in England.”

Now Violet's attention was diverted from the pudding. Reed was certainly eager to defend the duke from—what? Criticism? Blame? Something else? He was gainfully employed by the duke, so he did have reason to extol the man's virtues.

Sam was also diverted, but in a different manner. “That explains much about my difficulties with my colliery. I knew there was competition from other mines along the Nottingham coalfield, but I found that the largest challenge for labor came from this estate. I couldn't for the life of me understand how one house could require so many townspeople. I've been blamed near having to hang up my fiddle on the whole thing and abandon the mine.”

Reed tried to suppress a smile, and it was evident that his sympathy for Samuel Harper was overridden by his pride in working for such a grand—and magnanimous—peer of the realm.

Sam, though, was too wrapped up in his own rumination to notice Reed's amusement. “This estate must produce a vast amount of wealth to enable the duke to continue hiring and building without end.”

Violet winced. It might be de rigueur in America to discuss how success was achieved, but it was highly improper to inquire about a peer's prosperity. Reed, though, didn't seem to mind. “Yes, His Grace has made a variety of wise investments. His latest was in government consols to support the 1867 expedition to Abyssinia to see several imprisoned missionaries freed.”

“Consols?” Sam frowned.

“High-quality government bonds, typically used to fund wars and building projects when tax revenue at the moment of need isn't enough.”

“Ah, similar to our treasury notes,” Sam said, nodding in understanding.

“Yes. His Grace purchased a vast amount in consols, but has lately been turning them back in to regain the principal in order to maintain the pace of his construction schedule. I hear that the Crown is short two million pounds in revenues for the past year in having to repay him.”

This was yet another interesting tidbit Violet hadn't known about Portland. Was he really risking his investments and standing with the government to ensure he had funds available to keep men employed on his estate? Perhaps it was no wonder that they were generally willing to overlook his eccentricities.

“His Grace is truly generous,” she repeated, and she wasn't even thinking about bread pudding anymore. She was actually thinking once more about Colonel Mortimer. How far had Portland's generosity extended to his old war friend? The duke seemed to have three passions: construction, church, and charity. Was it remotely possible that he somehow knew the colonel was mistaken in what he had witnessed the night Spencer died, and was giving the man protection out of loyalty to their past camaraderie? Was one of the men covering something up for an unknown reason, or was Violet's vivid imagination just running away with her again?

The men returned to their discussion about the next day's dynamite, and by the time luncheon was over—with servings of bread pudding finally consumed—it was agreed that Violet would stay over at Welbeck once more since Sam would be busy until the morning in securing everything in town for the next day's tunneling.

This time, Violet was happy to stay at the Abbey, for she had decided that a particular visit was in order, to set her mind at rest. Or perhaps she would be poking a stick in a hornets' nest, and risking getting badly stung.

Once Sam had departed for Worksop, Violet set about on her plan, first asking as to where Colonel Mortimer's cottage was. To her surprise, she learned that it was in the same cluster of cottages where Reed's was.

This meant that she was doing a great deal of walking back and forth across the estate today, although her waistline could certainly benefit from the effort.

Violet took a walking path that led from the rookery to the rear gardens of the house and beyond. As she walked, she remembered the grove of trees near the rear gardens to which Chandler had pointed, saying that the ravens enjoyed perching there. If Aristotle spent much time there, perhaps that was where he had picked up the shard, and maybe she could find the rest of the item, thus finally putting to rest that nagging question about what the raven had swallowed.

As with most of the other flora on the estate, the silver birches in this grove, with their paper-tissue bark, were stripped of leaves. Some of those leaves still remained on the ground beneath the canopies, curled and withered. They crunched and swished beneath her booted feet as she futilely kicked them around, looking for a cup, shattered plate, or anything that might match the fragment in her hand.

Was she merely chasing phantoms?

The telltale screeching of ravens grew louder until several of them lit on the uppermost branches of the birch trees, like gargoyles of death watching over her movements. She involuntarily shivered despite the sunshine of the day, and immediately admonished herself.

As if reading her thoughts, one of the ravens hopped down through the branches until it reached a low one right over Violet's head. It cocked its own head and stared at her as if to inquire what she was doing under
its
tree.

“I need to find the rest of this,” Violet said, pulling the shard from her reticule and holding it up for the raven's inspection. “Can you help—” She stopped herself. “What am I saying? I must be mad to seek a bird's assistance.”

She sighed. Perhaps everyone who came to work at Welbeck Abbey developed a touch of madness.

She returned to her fruitless search in the dirt and leaves, and soon realized that she had discovered yet another bizarre thing. There were dozens of small holes dug into the earth under the trees. They were deep, but only a few inches across. Had some burrowing animal done this? Violet couldn't imagine what creature it could have been. Moles dug tunnels much like Portland did. Mice and chipmunks burrowed into holes, but these weren't the random sort of holes she would expect from the rodents. These holes were in much more of a deliberate pattern.

Violet gasped aloud, causing the raven to squawk and ruffle its feathers in alarm. It hopped completely around the branch in one fluid motion to stare at her with its other eye.

Violet had lost most of her interest in the bird, though, as she knelt down and picked up a tiny piece of porcelain, practically glowing white against the dark ground around it. Yes, it was the same material. With great anticipation, she held the other shard up to it, turning it until it fit almost perfectly against the piece she'd just found.

She couldn't believe it. No wonder neither she nor anyone else had been able to determine what fine dining ware the original fragment had come from. She glanced up at the raven, which leaned over to examine what was in Violet's hands. “Korrrrr,” it said softly, as if it, too, realized the significance of what Violet held.

The fragment wasn't from dining ware after all. She held the two pieces together and realized that they combined to make a glass eye.

It was well made, the blue and green of the iris distinct yet blending together around the dark pupil almost artistically. It didn't look as though it was meant to be in the shape of a round eyeball, but instead was more of a prosthetic covering that would merely be inserted into the eye socket and attached to, what, a muscle?

Violet tried to remember if she had ever undertaken a body with a glass eye before. She had seen many prosthetic limbs and teeth before, but not an eye. Whoever wore this must be proud of it, for its artificiality wouldn't be apparent to anyone giving the wearer a cursory glance.

But who could the glass piece possibly belong to? Would he not be walking obviously about with an eye patch now?

She frowned as she thought of something. When Colonel Mortimer had visited Portland to tell the duke of having witnessed a murder, Violet had noticed that the colonel's eyes seemed to move independently of each other. Did he wear a glass eye? But when that occurred, she already had the shard in her reticule. Unless he had an additional prosthetic.

But . . . both of his eyes had been bloodshot, evidence of heavy drinking. A glass eye couldn't change its own appearance in that way.

The colonel's face had also been scuffed up. Now she truly wondered how that had happened. The man had claimed he witnessed a murder, and indeed Spencer's body was found near a tunnel located to the south front of the estate. Violet now stood far to the west. If the glass eye belonged to him—and she wasn't sure it did—it simply wasn't possible that he lost it while witnessing Spencer's murder.

Violet's thoughts turned very dark as she began to suspect the colonel of an exceedingly evil deed.

Had Mortimer killed Spencer here, dragged him over to the tunnel where he was sure to be easily found, and lost his prosthetic eye in the process? Had there been an altercation between the two men that resulted in the terrible bruising on Spencer's chest?

What of the rock Spencer had fallen against? Was that an intentional display by the colonel so that everyone would think Spencer had died in a mere fall?

The problem with all of this theorizing was that Violet could not reason out what the colonel's reason could be for killing the young man.

She rose and went to the birch tree, leaning her back against the trunk as she continued to examine the two shards and puzzle out what exactly it was she had discovered. The raven grew bored of watching her, and flapped off its branch to join its mates in the treetops with one final, guttural squawk.

Is there more to find in this area?
Violet decided to expand her search a bit farther into the grove of trees, hoping she wouldn't stumble upon any adders sleeping curled up in the denser underbrush, or twist an ankle in one of the many holes in the area.

She had no idea what she was even searching for with her feet as she continued shuffling through the growth that was clearly not part of the head gardener's responsibility to keep trimmed. More glass eyes? The weapon used to bruise Spencer? A written confession to the murder?